He smiled at that. ‘Now we’re talking,’ he said and, to my relief, he dragged me away from the wet lips and out of the room.
‘Thank you,’ I sobbed, holding onto him as if he were my saviour and not the reason for my torment.
‘Remember the party I took you to tonight?’ he said.
I nodded, wiping my nose on the back of my hand, as he held out a tissue. I took it and found myself thanking him again.
‘You’re going to attend those when I tell you to,’ he said, grabbing my chin, forcing me to look at him. ‘You will take care of anyone’s needs there. Not only that, but you will show every single person there how much you love it. You will laugh at people’s jokes, moan when they touch you, groan when you pleasure them, you will be willing and you will make me proud. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
He smiled and loosened his grip. ‘Good. In return, I’m going to take such good care of you.’ He tucked my hair behind my ear and stroked my cheek. ‘I will make sure you have everything you need, gorgeous. Fancy outfits, nail polish and make-up, somewhere to stay, food on the table. And if you’re really good, a cut of the earnings.’ He sighed and took a step back, looking me up and down. ‘By good I mean you will always look the part. Smile all the time, be charming and accommodating. That sounds pretty easy, doesn’t it?’
I nodded, only because it was expected.
‘The alternative is those guys in there. You getting me?’
‘Yes.’
We sat in silence the whole way home, my body feeling in need of a good scrub. The party hadn’t been too bad when I thought about it. People had been clean and, for the most part, nice, with expensive drinks flowing throughout the night.
The next morning, Stanley appeared at the apartment in the company of a man who was heavily tattooed.
Stanley gestured for me to come closer.
‘It’s a lovely morning, isn’t it?’ he said.
‘I guess…’
It was becoming clear that Stanley was more than a driver. X treated him with more respect than other people he surrounded himself with. Still, I couldn’t quite figure out what his role was.
‘Come over here,’ the tattooed man said when I didn’t move, but I stayed where I was, instinctively pulling my robe closer to my chest. Was X expecting another ‘favour’?
‘Sit down,’ X said. ‘My friend here is going to help me declare my love for you.’
He gave me a glass of vodka and told me to drink it. I kept searching for Stanley’s eyes, to work out whether I was in trouble. Something told me he wasn’t as vicious as X, but he kept avoiding my gaze, which was agitating.
‘Come on, drink up,’ X said. ‘I know it’s early, but you’ll need it.’
I wearily gulped the strong liquor, coughing. A few minutes later, tattoo man was making my ankle burn as he carved a red X into my skin. X kissed me and pulled me into a hug.
‘Now you’re perfect,’ he said. ‘I love you and everyone will see that you belong to me.’
Chapter 21
Kristin
Kristin’s financial situation is dire. She’s never been in charge of her own money before and it turns out spending almost everything at once without more coming in was a bad idea. She just got caught up in the moment of starting over. She naïvely thought that no one could find her. And quite possibly, no one has. She may be overreacting, which wouldn’t be the first time. Stanley might know she’s in Sweden but he won’t necessarily know where. She’s been too careful and he would have been more persistent anyway. If he were the unknown caller, he would have dialled her number over and over until she was forced to leave the phone off the hook. Brandon once smashed their phone into pieces because of Stanley.
She’s being rational. Olof would be proud. The gun is safely tucked away too, and she has even made plans for the day: she will visit Beata and, also, Olof. Next week, she starts her new job. She’s got purpose and every therapist has emphasised how important it is to have goals.
She can’t take the risk of walking around the streets, however. Mohamed will need to drive her. Then a fleeting thought: what if Mohamed isn’t who he says he is? What if he’s out to get her? Maybe she should bring the gun along? But what if she ends up shooting Beata? The woman is clearly frail and stuck in that home until the end of her days but still… that’s no excuse. Kristin has spent a lot of time thinking about her death. Does she have life insurance and, if so, whom is that made out to? How can she find out? Will someone out of the blue turn up and claim it?
Despite what the police and Brandon’s family insinuated, it was Brandon’s idea to arrange his life insurance. He didn’t want another man to take care of her if he passed. The thought was perhaps born out of jealousy, but she chose to view it as a romantic gesture. It made up for the times when he trashed the trailer. Although in the beginning, he never laid a finger on her.
*
‘Today, I don’t recognise you,’ Mohamed says.
She’s snapped out of paranoia and called him, but she’s covered her head in a scarf and is wearing big sunglasses. In case someone is watching.
‘I felt like trying something new,’ she says.
They drive in silence and perhaps it’s down to her excessive bag-fidgeting or the fact that she’s constantly twisting her head, looking out of the car in every possible direction.
It’s overcast today, windy with heavy rain; people on the pavement wrestle with their umbrellas. She’s grateful to be in a taxi, but realistically she can’t keep this up. Taxis aren’t cheap here.
‘Please can you wait for me?’ she still asks. ‘I won’t be long.’
The visit to Beata is quick.
‘I brought you these,’ Kristin says, bringing out a box of vanilla cookies called drömmar, which means ‘dreams’, together with rhubarb and strawberry-flavoured sparkling water. ‘Beata,’ she says, sitting down opposite her. There’s no time to waste. ‘Are you sure that no one else comes to visit you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she says, her wrinkly hand already reaching out for one of the cookies.
‘Even in the beginning, when you first moved here. No one came to see you?’
‘You’re not one for small talk, are you?’ Beata says, smiling at her, then shaking her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I appreciate that these conversations are real. I’m sick of old-people talk. “It’s such a nice day, isn’t it?” As if I can just go outside and enjoy it.’
‘Yeah…’ Kristin says but she’s struggling to stay in the conversation. ‘If you need help with anything – any papers or something like that – let me know. You’re already like family to me.’
‘Oh, dear, how sweet.’
It turns out Beata hasn’t given anyone power of attorney and that’s a good sign. No one else is out there, messing with this woman’s life.
*
At Olof’s office, Kristin feels more at ease. He shakes her hand the way he did the first time and, although she likes routines, she can’t help but wonder if he’s used the antibacterial gel that sits on his desk.
He enquires about her week but instead of talking about the letter, Stanley or even the gun she’s collected, she starts the session by sharing a minor achievement. It feels safer.
‘When I left the apartment today I only went back once to check that the hob really was switched off.’
‘Kristin,’ Olof exclaims with an unexpected enthusiasm. ‘That’s brilliant.’
His animated excitement makes her want to do even better, to come back and share more of these stories. In future, she might even tell him that instead of returning to the kitchen in the trailer, over and over again, checking that Brandon’s lifeless body really was gone, she moved to Sweden. Would that impress him?
‘So…’ Olof says in a calmer fashion, leaning back in his chair. ‘Last time we talked about university. You studied film.’
Kristin nods, grateful that he remembers their last conversation.
‘Yes, I did.
Even though my father had hoped I would study something more relevant to the family business. He wanted me to work there.’
‘And yet you chose yourself?’
She stretches her neck, remembers the victory. Well, part-victory at least. It came with a price. By letting her choose her own subjects, he cut her study funds, forcing her to work. Desperate to continue at university, she was seduced by an on-the-surface easy job.
‘Yes, but I had to promise to work for him after I finished my studies.’
By then she was deeply entrenched in her other job and had to keep it going along with her duties at her father’s office. At least until she met Brandon.
‘My brother had left at that point and I knew he wouldn’t let me go too. Allowing me to go to university was like a down-payment for my future services.’
Olof adjusts his glasses.
‘Tell me about your brother.’
‘He moved to New York,’ she says. ‘My brother was clever. He promised he would take over from my father one day, but claimed he would need to study engineering or economics first to understand the business. That’s how he sold it anyway and my father fell for it.’
‘Fell for it?’
‘Yes. He had no plans to work for the family business. After he graduated, my brother was offered a job somewhere else. He never returned.’
He abandoned her, only to pop up from time to time to harass her, reminding her that she was a stupid loser.
‘How did this affect you?’ Olof asks.
She sees walls, her back pressed up against perfectly applied wallpaper, as she moves back in time. The loud voices followed by silence; an oppressive, nasty stillness. She preferred the fighting. When she could hear her parents and knew where they were.
‘My father lost control,’ she admits. ‘Everything fell apart.’
She stops and looks at her dry hands and tears off a flake, studying the blood seeping out onto the pale skin.
‘How did your brother treat you?’ Olof asks.
She looks up. ‘He hates me.’
‘Why do you say that?’
I don’t listen to him.
‘Well, that’s obvious, isn’t it? He left,’ she says. ‘Anyway, I only worked as my father’s assistant for a short while. I left as soon as I got married.’
The End.
‘You were married?’ Olof asks.
His look of surprise hurts. Didn’t he say she looked like Scarlett Johansson? If so, she should be able to land any guy she chooses.
‘His name was Brandon,’ she says.
Olof reviews his notes, turning back a couple of pages, as if he must have written that down but forgotten about it, except she hasn’t told him until now. She enjoys seeing him in a state of non-perfection and while he looks at his notes, she takes the opportunity to study him. Today, he’s wearing a crisp white shirt, which is tucked into corduroys. She wonders who irons it. Does he have a girlfriend? There’s no ring on his finger.
‘Kristin… do you want to talk about Brandon?’ he asks, thoughtfully kneading his chin, making the dark-framed, rectangular glasses slide down his nose.
She thinks. What does she want to say about Brandon?
‘At the core, he must have been a caring person,’ she says eventually. ‘Otherwise, I don’t think he would have chosen someone like me. Don’t you agree?’
‘That’s an interesting analysis,’ Olof says. ‘Or he saw something in you that you perhaps don’t always see in yourself.’
Interesting indeed, she thinks. Did Olof just pay her a compliment?
‘I met Brandon at my father’s office,’ she says. ‘He came in to discuss an extension to his mobile home. He insisted on speaking to the boss and since I was his assistant I made him coffee.’
That’s a vivid memory: the weathered cowboy boots, the jeans stretched over his muscular legs, the bushy beard and his strong aftershave making it hard to breathe. She felt frightened of him and her hands shook when she put the coffee down, causing her to spill it. When she returned with cleaning spray and kitchen roll, he grabbed hold of her hand and she nearly screamed.
‘He asked me why my hand was red and I yanked it away and hid it behind my back. Then I rushed back to my cubicle but he followed me, pressing his large hands down on my desk. He leaned down and spoke to me with a low voice, so that no one else could hear. “Don’t worry,” he said. “My mother is the same.”’
‘The same?’
‘Actually,’ Kristin says, ‘his mother was worse. A lot worse. She couldn’t even keep garbage in the house; she took it out several times a day, wearing gloves. Seeing her made me feel more normal.’
She pauses. Is it disrespectful to talk about Brandon’s mother? I hope you rot in hell. Why does she hate her so much? Kristin wasn’t the only one questioned about Brandon’s death. Other people were also dragged into it, including Stanley and Brandon’s many friends. Yet everyone blames her.
‘You are fine,’ Olof says after a while. ‘Your symptoms are not as bad as you think.’
She smiles. This is why she likes Olof. He reminds her that she’s okay, that her transition across the Atlantic has made her better. Without a husband or parents to monitor her life, she’s in control. Whatever she may or may not have done, Olof is right: she is fine.
‘Can I ask you something?’ she says. ‘Brandon’s mother lost a baby because of a bacterial infection. That’s when she started a war on bacteria. You see, she had an excuse.’
‘You mean you don’t have an excuse?’
She nods.
‘Everyone is different,’ Olof says. ‘You shouldn’t compare yourself to others. But, Kristin, I’m curious.’ He plays with the pen in his hand and she almost loses focus. ‘Why did your marriage end? Did he struggle to deal with your obsessions? Is that why you’re hard on yourself?’
‘He died,’ she says.
Olof removes his glasses and looks at her with sympathetic eyes. She rests there, in the comforting brown irises. He makes her feel that she can change. If only she could stay here forever, because no matter how hard she will fall, it feels as if Olof will catch her.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says.
‘Don’t be,’ she says.
Back home, she feels recharged after her meeting with Olof despite the challenging conversation. But her energy spurt is short-lived. On the mantel in the hallway is a letter.
‘I picked it up,’ Niklas says. ‘It’s got someone else’s name on it though. Do you know who Sofia Anderson is?’
Chapter 22
Gabriella
‘Are you decent?’ Gabriella calls into Peter.
The woman next door, whose name is Birgitta, is back. It’s almost midnight. Why does she keep turning up at such an odd hour? To find out, Gabriella invites her in, but she does have a naked man in her living room.
‘Sorry, could you please wait one second?’ Gabriella apologises.
‘Of course,’ Birgitta says, adjusting her pearls, a strained smile on her lips.
‘I’m a sculptress,’ Gabriella explains. She never gets tired of saying that out loud. ‘And I have a model here. We’re just wrapping up. Let me check if he’s dressed and then I’ll put coffee on. Okay?’
Gabriella closes the door, not wanting to leave the woman outside but what choice does she have? Back inside, Peter steps out of the bathroom, doing up the last button on his shirt.
‘Who’s outside?’ he asks.
‘My neighbour again,’ she says. ‘The wife.’
‘It’s kind of late, isn’t it?’ he says, checking his watch. ‘What did she want last time?’
‘Believe it or not, to borrow eggs,’ she says, chuckling.
‘Eggs?’
‘I know, she was baking a cake for her husband and didn’t want him to know. It was supposed to be a surprise. Anyway, I’m vegan so I couldn’t help her.’
‘Weird.’
‘Isn’t it? And now she’s back and I’m not sure why, so I’ve invited
her in.’
‘Aha…’
He pulls her into a hug and kisses her hair, then tilts her head back, brushing his lips against her forehead, her nose and her lips. They both linger there, their mouths centimetres apart, until they clamour onto each other, their lips pressed together with a passionate force; tongues gliding into the other one’s mouth, engaging in play. Until she pushes him back, reeling.
‘Wait,’ she gasps. ‘My neighbour is waiting outside, remember?’
‘I know. It’s such an inconvenience.’
She grins and gently beats his chest with her fists. ‘You should leave anyway before this gets out of hand.’
Her mentor, Stieg, always maintains that there is nothing sexual about models. ‘They’re an object,’ he says, and until now she’s agreed with him.
‘You’re the boss,’ Peter says, picking up his phone and keys. ‘I’ll sneak out the back door. I don’t want anyone to know I’m a life model.’
‘Sure,’ she says, suppressing a laugh. ‘Don’t you think you’re overreacting slightly? My neighbour won’t care.’
‘I don’t want to take any chances.’
Before he leaves, he gives her another long kiss and she almost loses herself all over again.
‘Anyway, you better see to your neighbour,’ he says, pulling away. ‘I’ll come by tomorrow.’
She can’t wait.
*
Birgitta apologises about the stains the wheels leave on the wooden floors.
‘All this rain,’ Gabriella complains. It’s been a truly crap summer.
She doesn’t want Birgitta to feel as if she’s a nuisance though. Once inside, Gabriella can see how tired her neighbour is; although immaculately put together, her body is wilting, as if she’s fatigued. Birgitta surveys the living room, her eyes settling on Gabriella’s one and only armchair, a faded navy-blue flea-market find.
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